


for beauty like his

by Hopie (hopiecat)



Category: Magic Kaito
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6013069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopiecat/pseuds/Hopie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saguru really wishes he could have a quiet night in without Kaitou Kid interrupting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> basically i just wanted to write something that incorporated c.s. pacat's captive prince. and it was valentine's day. and my valentine's day was uneventful, so here, have two idiots playing around.

They had him taken to the Prince's chambers, stripped and painted and _prepared_.  
  
Saguru didn't think to fight back. He'd had his chance, on the vessel that had borne him to this scrap of broken land, this sugary waste of an island bordered on all sides by storms and rocks, and he'd failed; his one attempt to get loose a sword from the guards had ended up in peacock bruising all along his sides. Catching sight of himself in the Prince's overlavished mirror, he thought he'd be lucky if he didn't get thrown back out. No Prince, Saguru knew, wanted used goods.

And he looked like nothing more than used goods.

It wouldn't have been a problem if he'd been home, in his rightful place on the throne. It wouldn't have been a problem if he'd been allowed to keep even a shred of his clothing – instead, he'd been draped head to toe in silk, pale enough that it made his skin look like moonshade, his hair brassy and sharp in the dim lighting, that it made the bruising look darker. Saguru touched his ribs, focused on sliding his fingers against his skin, counting them. Onetwothreefourfivesixseven—

Footsteps beyond the door. He tensed, muscles tightening; shifted a scant few inches to the right.

The door opened, and the Prince stood on the threshold.

He was beautiful, of course. It was a princely requisite, to be beautiful, to have a face that would spur the crowd to patriotic sighing, but the White Prince was beautiful the way a storm was: distant, otherworldly, madly, stunningly bright. His breath caught inside his chest, burned there like a scrap of food gone the wrong way.

The Prince's hair was black like ash, wild and wind-curled. His face was fox-sharp, petering down to a jaw like a knife-blade, with a full, sweet-curved mouth to soften the edges of it. He had blue eyes, jewels for eyes, and Saguru had never seen any twin to them. His clothes were fussy and restraining, done up to the throat in a mess of lacework and intricate silver loops. White. He wore white, and he wore it like he'd just woken from a tussle in the bedroom. His eyes were sleepy, his mouth red and bright.

Saguru couldn't take his eyes off him.  It was stupid, so stupid, the Prince was only a man – and yet Saguru could feel his own body reacting, betraying him, his cock stiffening underneath that stupid piece of silky white cloth.

Prince Kaito Kuroba smiled, a crook of his lips. Barely a gesture, and it made his body ache like he'd been beaten.

"You're the pleasure slave from the West?" said the Prince, stepping into the room. Candlelight dripped onto his arms, highlighting corded muscle, steel-stiff, shifting like silk: pure machinery, every movement coiled and sensuous. "What's your name?"

"Saguru," he ducked his head, couldn't look at the Prince or those eyes without being stickily aware of his --- _predicament_ , buried underneath the silk. "Saguru Hakuba. My, um. Lord."

Prince Kaito hummed, almost absently, and crossed the room to the low table by the door. He poured himself a glassful of blood-bright wine, and sipped from it – his throat moved, flexing, muscle there, too.

Saguru wet his lips; felt his cock tickle against the silk.

"Have you been trained?" said the Prince, kindly. "You look a little nervous."

_You look a little over-dressed_ , thought Saguru. He flushed, didn't want to give light to his thoughts. "I—have never been taken by a prince before," he said, quietly, staring down at his hands. The slave cuffs on his wrists were solid gold, chunky things that seemed more designed for weaponry than ornamentation. "I was –trained, but um, I don't have much---experience."

"Is that so?" said Prince Kaito, and his glass clinked down onto a surface.

Saguru's heart skipped a beat.

The prince crossed the room. Slow, measured steps, like a dance. His hips a pendulum, the shifty white gauze drifting around his thighs, exposing powerful muscle, warrior limbs. His hands broad and long-fingered, and soft, when they cupped Saguru's face, gentle when he passed his thumb over his mouth.

Saguru parted his lips, couldn't keep himself from gasping. The Prince smelled like sunlight and dust, chamomile and old books and violets brewing under damp bridges. "My Prince—"

Sudden chime of bells.

"I'll be gentle," murmured Prince Kaito, his lips soft, the caress of them stirring fire inside him. "Your training is good, I don't doubt – the pleasure slaves of the West are—" the bells, louder, "—well-versed in---" silence. Prince Kaito cocked his head to the side, waited.  Said, softly, "---Well-versed in, well---pleasure."

Saguru flushed.

Kaito's thumb brushed against his lower lip, slow and gentle, and his head dipped forward. His forehead was a furnace, brushing against his; that sweet scent of him was everywhere, and Saguru had to restrain a moan at the—

_Driiiiiiiiiing_.

"Is that yours or mine?" whispered Kaito, annoyedirritatedgrumpyamused.

Saguru blinked. The temple palace faded away.

Top floor suite at the Mandarin Oriental, bed like a ship, blue silk sheets and floor to ceiling windows, automated heating suffusing the air with warmth. Kaito head to toe in a white silk robe. Phone ringing.

Goddamnit.

"Mine," said Saguru, mournfully and grumpy, letting go of the fantasy. Slipped off the bed, into thick-pelt red carpet, "it's—"

"My bag," said Kaito, "in the kitchen." A lazy gesture, one roll of the wrist; he looked in his element in luxury, dripping with wealth, sprawled out on the ridiculously oversized bed and covered in silk. "You go get it, slave."

"Ha, ha, ha," Saguru intoned, dull and deep ( _but a small kick of pleasure in his belly made him shudder_ ). He made his way over to the kitchen – an actual kitchen, full-sized, equipped with all amenities – and plucked Kaito's battered black backpack from the floor, rooted through it ( _pack of cards crushed silk tophat spare tie packet of condoms_ — _there!_ )  Pulled out his phone, vibrating ominously, Tokyo Department number.

"Yes?"

"Why the hell aren't you answering your pager?" Nakamori. Saguru squeezed his eyes shut, and couldn't quite hold the groan in.

Footsteps. Quiet, gentle footsteps. Kaito's arms sliding around his waist. Sun and chamomile.

"I was indisposed," said Saguru, leaned back into the embrace. Kaito's mouth teethed at his neck; he had to bit his lower lip to keep from shuddering, arching into it, wanting more. His body went hot at the slightest hint of affection from Kaito, and he didn't really want to collude erections with Nakamori's voice, to confuse pleasure with work. There was a name for people like that, and he knew full well that it was not a pleasant one. "What's the matter?"

"Kid," one word, short, sharp, succinct. False.

Saguru twisted around, looked at Kaito, very obviously in the suite. Kaito raised his brows.

"I'm sorry?"

  
"He has a heist tonight," said Nakamori, edge-of-metal cutting. "The notice came in two weeks ago. You said you'd be on scene. We had a plan." Louder and louder. "Did you _forget_?"

"Ah—" No right answer no right way to make this better opt for truth. "I—I must have. I'll be there."

Nakamori hung up, with a word in Japanese that he thought Saguru wouldn't know.

He did.

Breathe out, turn to look at Kaito.

"Heist notice," said Saguru, raised a brow.

"Shit!" Kaito's eyes flickered wide, "was that _today_?"

"I have just been informed that it was," said Saguru, stinging still from the snap of Nakamori's voice. "How the hell do you forget a _heist_?"

"I was busy trying to memorize all the backstory! You're the only man in the world who has _backstory_ for sex-games--"

Flare of sudden heat. Saguru scowled, looked down at his bare feet, deciding it was better to avert his attention before his head exploded, and made an unsightly mess all across that silk linen. "It's for _added interest_. That's why it's called _roleplaying_ , Kaito."

"Baby," the English word, "roleplaying is like – you're the professor, and I'm the schoolgirl. It doesn't have _political factions_ and _plots_ _to overthrow the kingdom_. That's not porn, Saguru, it's Queer Eye for Game of Thrones."

"Well, _you_ like it," Saguru muttered, sulky and soft, fretting at the fraying edge of Kaito's backpack. "You had character sheets."

"Arara, but I'm a method actor," said Kaito, loud smacking kiss to the spot between his shoulderblades, "this is what I do. And besides – you _really_ liked the idea--" punctuated with a hand slid between his legs, grasping his half-hard cock, making him gasp, arch his back and push himself forward. Kaito's teeth glancing down his spine, shudderingly gentle, but Saguru knew he bruised like a peach – there'd be teeth marks.

And then: "I have to go," miserable.

"Duty calls," said Kaito, and let him go.

His legs shook. Didn't seem to want to hold his weight. Saguru turned around, breathed, tried to clear the lump in his chest. The windows behind Kaito haloed him in light, and he had never looked any less perfect: wrapped in what looked like a Roman toga, his hair spiked up and pushed in all directions, smudge of tired shadows underneath his eyes, tinfoil crown on his head.

_All for me_ , thought Saguru (heart aching chest aching _God I love you so much_ ). He caught Kaito's wrist, and tugged him closer, tilted his head up and found his mouth, wet and soft and warm and ready for him, lips parted, tongue just _there_ , tangling with his. Kaito's fingers hooked into the nape of his neck, gripped tightly. His body, all muscle and steel, pressed up against his, and Saguru thought, for one mad second, _how long would it take to pin you up on one of those counters_?

And then: _too long_.

Saguru growled, dragged his arm around Kaito's waist, hooked him up a little against him – not actually lifted him, he couldn't do that, he was too heavy, but he cradled him against him, coaxed Kaito onto the tips of his toes like a dancer. The heavy velvety weight of him felt like _home_ and _safety_ and _need_ , and he didn't want to let go, not for a second, not for work, not for a bloody stupid heist notice that was going to leave him running over the rooftops or bored out of his mind, waiting for something to happen that would be almost as good as playing with Kaito in a rented hotel room.

He pulled himself away, sighed. "I should get dressed." No move to get dressed. "...Maybe we can try this again?"

Kaito grinned. "Prince Kuroba will be _very_ happy to break in his pleasure slave," he said, prim proper old Japanese.

Saguru laughed, smacked the back of his head even as his cheeks flushed. "Arse."

  
"That too, if you're polite about it—Ow! Mean!" Kaito stuck out his tongue, and impulsively, Saguru leaned down, nipped at it. "Owowow—now I need to be kissed better---"

It took him a few more minutes to unglue himself from Kaito, pad into the bedroom, gather up his discarded clothes. Trousers over the lamp. Shirt by the door. Socks – only one available, tucked up into one of the arm-chairs. As he was negotiating his tie from the sailor's knot around the headboard, he noted Kaito stepping out of his outfit, pulling on his jeans.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pulling the silk; it didn't give, barely moved. "You don't need to come with me."

"Of course I do," said Kaito, and shook out of his crumpled shirt. "There's a heist notice."

Slow dawning realization. Saguru gaped. "I thought you were going to just cancel—"

"I was," said Kaito, and toed on his shoes, "but then I realized –" wild grin, all teeth, "what's a detective without his favourite thief?"  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romantic night duly ruined, Saguru shows up to the heist knowing full-well Phantom Thief Kid is going to make it worth his while. 
> 
> This was meant to be done much, much earlier.

21:37:30PM. Top of the Mitsubishi Ichigokan Museum. Stiff cold breeze from the north. Temperature dipping to 19 degrees, 15 degrees, 12 degrees Celsius. Kaito nowhere in sight. He'd left the hotel before him, gotten into a taxi, and that had been the last that Saguru had seen of him. Nakamori fuming one floor below, snap of his voice still echoing in his ear, why aren't you answering your pager. The drive over in blister-inducing weather chased away the residue want in his veins, and now he was cold, on top of a rooftop, waiting for a heist notice, and KID to appear. If he ever did. 

Which he hadn't been supposed to. That had been their agreement. With the Black Organization gone, KID had no reason to keep – vexing the police. They'd planned for him to taper off his heists, for him to have a few close shaves, and then disappear, leaving Nakamori with an uncaught thief, but a good way out. Dignity intact. 

And yet, Kaito had said he'd be at this heist. 

Saguru rubbed his hands together, stuck them into his pockets. Went over the Mitsubishi Ichigokan's plan in his mind: 800 square meters of exhibition space pressed into 6000 square metres of floorplan , split up into 20 rooms over three storeys—

Shriek of the alarm, and Nakamori's voice barking in his ear, "KID!"

"Let him up onto the rooftop," cool and smooth, into the headset, "I'll corner him upstairs." No intention of actually catching him, of course, but cornering, he could do very well. Rolled up his sleeves. Bitter nip of winter icing down his veins, and he padded towards the edge of the roof, peered down. Smoke guttered from one of the open windows – sleeping gas again? Nothing if not predictab—

"Detective?" close to his ear, sugar molded around steel. Kaito's long, elegant fingers slid against his chest, and caught on his tie. 

Sunlight and chamomile and dust and home. His heart lurched inside his chest, and if he'd not known better, if he hadn't grown used to it skipping beats every time Kaito was near him, he'd have been worried. 

"Smoke bombs and—?" Saguru inclined his head, turned it enough to look at him. Caught a sliver of foxy cheek, the dipped brim of his tophat, a smile like a crescent. "Did you manage to get the painting?" 

"I switched it out for one in storage," said KID. He had a deeper voice than Kaito, his language was older and darker, more archaic, more formal. 

"That'll take him days to discover," said Saguru, forseeing Nakamori's late nights, his panic over the missing portrait, days spent anchored to his desk. 

"I left clues," said KID, chastised. Stepped back a step, and Saguru could see him fully, now, in that ridiculous white suit, looking at him with cocked head and overbright smile. Watching him like—

\---something's up, since when does Kaito look like that? Like a puzzle he had underneath his fingers, like something he wanted to solve. Saguru frowned. 

"Is there --- something the matter?" said Saguru, hands fidgeting in air. 

Tip of the head to the right, infinitesimally small movement. "I just thought," said Kaito, "that this would be an ideal place for Prince KID to take his willing slave apart." 

A beat. 

And then: flush of heat from belly to neck to cheeks, ears aching underneath the strain of those words and Kaito's silken smile and his knowing glance, the precise way he bridged the distance between them until they were a breath apart, a fingertip away. The wind ruffling Kaito's hair. Sharp, short clanging bursts of noise from below as the traffic bellied past the building. Nakamori's voice buzzing in his ear like bees, sending cops racing up to this floor, this place, this moment—

God, they'd be interrupted. And Saguru didn't know whether his stomach clenched for that, or for Kaito's words, and his sweet way of unravelling him. 

But: this was KID, and KID dealt differently with these things. 

Bolstered his voice stiff (shuddering wondering wanting Kaito's hands on him) and said, "Don't make me push you off this building. I know for a fact you have a hang-glider strapped to you." 

Kaito's smile widened like a cut, going wild. It was incredible, thought Saguru, had always thought this, how a smile, a mere flicker of teeth, could mean the difference between Kaito and KID. Kaito smiled sweetly, gently, softly. 

KID smiled like a secret, and the edges of a knife. 

"That's not a nice way to talk to your prince," said KID, now, not Kaito, reprovingly. The distance between them seemed too big and too small at once; he was, at a breath, too close, and too far. "And I only want to do lovely things to you, too. Pity, Detective."

A gloved hand against his jaw. Saguru forced himself not to flinch, not to lean into it. 

"Do you know what I've always thought, Detective?" said KID. 

His breath squeaked inside his lungs. He wasn't getting enough air, and yet he seemed powerless to stop himself from gulping at it. The whole world reflected in those eyes, sharp and blue and star-bright. The fingers against his mouth moved down, caught his chin, pulled his head down, and yet it felt as though he had to brace himself for it, for KID and his clever wicked ways, and his clever, wicked tongue. 

"S---Several times." It was illogical, Saguru knew this. He knew that this wasn't two people, that he wasn't dealing with two entities, that KID and Kaito were the same person, but—but. Kaito was so good at separating himself from KID. So good at making himself seem like there was another person pulling the thievery strings. So good at—

KID's fingers brushed across his mouth, and Saguru allowed his lips to part, the glove to graze the sensitive flesh on the inside of his lip. He shuddered. No air collapsed into his lungs. 

"I've always thought," said KID, gently, "that you needed someone to take care of you. Look at yourself, Detective. Look." 

Didn't need to look. He knew. Too low weight and strung-out nervous system. Too quick to jump into dangerous situations. Nakamori calling him back from crimes, wading into the thick of a crime scene, chasing after criminals—Kaito yelling at him, what am I going to do if you get yourself killed---

It's a pattern, a show of reckless behaviour that boiled down to I'm not worth enough to save. 

"I'm fine—" voice breaking on the first letter, crumbling on the second. 

KID made a gentle noise in his throat, and then another one, distracted, sharp.

And then he kissed him. 

Even with the lifts, Kaito wasn't tall enough to reach up to six feet and three inches, couldn't get close enough without standing on steps. His fingers knotted tight in his tie, pulling him down, hauling his mouth against his in a sudden frenzy of teeth and tongue, taste and want, aching pleasure and barely-there sensation. His fingers in his hair, pulling at it, tingling nerves in his scalp crying out for attention. Making his knees weak, making him sway. 

The two masks blended back together, not-KID, not-Kaito, became something else, something familiar and foreign, understood and mysterious. Both of them at once. Saguru can't keep up with the thread of one, let alone two, but he let Kaito tug him over to the little door on the rooftop. 

"Wait—" Saguru managed, burbling words drowning in his throat, "wait, wait, Nakamori—" 

As if on cue – probably on cue – there was a cacophony of noise below, and something white and huge loomed in the corner of his eye. His Bluetooth sparked a noise inside his ear, and Nakamori was shouting, yelling, "KID's off, he's heading for the city! Where the hell are you?" 

Saguru turned; saw the hang-glider with the fake KID (or Jii, he couldn't tell at this distance) planing off toward the cluttered heart of Tokyo, where the cops would almost certainly lose him in the traffic and the lights, where it'd guarantee them a few minutes alone – and the laugh felt like it was coming out of his skin. 

"You planned this," he accused, pulled back to himself, not quite as delicate as he'd been before. The reminder of who they were – thief and detective – helped to chase the fragility out of him.

Kaito grinned, and his arm hooked into his in an iron-grip. The hat was lopsided, the monocle's glass fogged. 

"You're not the only one with fantasies," he told him, "pleasure-slave Saguru." 

Saguru laughed. Impossibly, it echoed in pure silence as they made their way down to the top floor of the Mitsubishi Ichigokan Museum. Uninspiringly black, bare where the offices and storage rooms were, the pinpoint eyes of cameras blind – somehow Kaito had broken the security system, why was he surprised? – and—the noise of Kaito walking with him, footsteps on linoleum, bare windows sweeping moonlight into the room. Kaito led him through a labyrinth of corridors, tangled and dim, the security lights on the top floor offering a faint light to see by. Not enough for him not to look at what a terrible idea this was – to imagine Nakamori doubling back for him, catching him in the throes of passion with Kaito buried—

He swallowed down air like dust, shuddered. His fingers slid into the gaps between Kaito's, held onto his hand just – because. He wanted, needed, to be close to him. He needed all that care. 

Down past two doors and through a third. An official's office. Someone unhappy worked here; he could tell; no personal effects on the walls, but a fully stocked rolodex, the mini-fridge installed underneath the desk gleaming silver and new. Old desk, polished to modern glossiness, papers stacked neatly on one side. A full outbox. Someone older – though in Japan, that wasn't saying much, really. Technology hadn't really gotten its tenterhooks into Japan. 

"President's office?" he said, to say something. Everything else felt too risky to put into words. 

"Clever boy," Kaito answered, and the words slid straight down into his belly. "He was the one bragging about how his security system was top of the range. Took me maybe two minutes to rewire the main panel, and thus—" He stopped, side-eyed a look at him. "Should I be saying this, Detective? Am I under oath?" His voice light as a feather, floating over him, never touching the ground – Saguru had never really thought enough about how much effort Kaito put into being KID. Even their way of talking was completely, maddeningly different. 

And, with KID, Saguru couldn't get his bearings. Didn't know how to reach him. Didn't know what to say, always felt as though he was fumbling, as though he was a child. 

"Do I look in any position to arrest you?" said Saguru, his words scratching in his throat. "I don't even have my badge."

Without missing a beat, Kaito pulled it out of thin air. "Swiped it when we were walking down the stairs," he said, with a bright smile that left him aching. "You're getting sloppy." 

"I'm distracted." Which was no excuse. 

But it was the truth. God knew it cost him more than he wanted to think to say it. 

Kaito's eyes softened. His hands slid up, to his jaw, and for two exact seconds, Saguru could almost see him give in. Tell him to forget this insane idea, to take them back home. 

Then: shutters came down over those eyes. Someone unfamiliar, but safe, stared back up at him. 

"It's my absolute pleasure," said KID, his melting-sugar voice hot on his skin, "to be your distraction, Detective. Oh, you look like you badly need a distraction." His fingers unknotted his tie; it slid away like a dream, there one minute, in Kaito's hands the next. "And magicians do pride themselves on their distractions." 

"Magicians build their lives on distractions," muttered Saguru. 

KID clicked his tongue, reprovingly. In his hands, his tie had suddenly morphed into a pair of handcuffs. There was a trick involved, it happened too quickly to be planned, but for the life of him, Saguru couldn't think what it was. Sleight of hand. Slide the tie in one pocket, pull out---

"Now, now," said Kaito, "that's nasty of you to say. We don't thrive on distraction. We thrive on attention. A magician builds a show for his audience – guaranteed to grab their attention. They tap into people's most --- vulnerable thoughts." 

"Like psychiatrists," said Saguru, only half-sarcastically. 

KID laughed, and took hold of his shoulder. He was strong; stronger than anyone on the force had anticipated, stronger than he had anticipated, and he could twist him around, bend him down on the desk, pin him flat. His mouth to the blotter, desk organizer underneath his nose. 

A sudden 'click' as the handcuffs snapped onto his wrists. 

"If you like," said KID, "but psychiatrists are all about --- pulling people's thoughts out for display. Making sense of them. Magicians—mmm—" his hands slid down, took hold of the zipper. Tugged it. 

Down. Shudder of teeth. 

Saguru could feel his stomach swell with heat and want. He whimpered, spread his legs for the touch, lost half of what Kaito was saying in the thundering pulse in his head. Magicians, and psychiatrists, shows, and thoughts – what did it matter? 

"Detective," said KID, half-shocked, his silky glove tight around his cock, "I had no idea you carried such a weapon! Is it registered with the—"

"If you mention the police," said Saguru, gritted teeth, panting for air, "I'm going to—" He couldn't quite think of what he'd do – his brain seemed firmly lodged somewhere below the belt – but he growled, to give some teeth to his threat. Even though it wasn't quite a threat. Even though his words dragged more on a whine than on serious temper. 

Everything, oh, everything, everything was Kaito's soft laugh, the way his thumb slid point-perfect down to the base of his cock, found the vein aching in the underside. Saguru whimpered, felt it coil inside his chest. His hips shifted forward, his body splayed more onto the desk, legs half-opened, trousers down around his ankles, shimmied there out of gravity. 

"Dear me," said KID, "how long has it been, detective?"

Not that long, thought Saguru, and something separate in him thought, oh, ages. 

"Not that long," he said. Temporally, it was the truth. Even if, when they were together, it was him paying attention to Kaito. Him making sure that Kaito had his pleasure. Him making sure that everything was taken care of. 

He'd never considered the alternative – he'd never had an opportunity to think—

Kaito's thumb slid up, dug into the slick mess gathered around his slit. Saguru's breath cut off as though he'd hit a pressure point. His vision flickered white for a second, whole impressions emptying out of his head, leaving his skull buzzing with just the pleasure, the ache of it inside him. 

"Not that long?" said Kaito, KID's voice, sugar and honey tempered with whiskey, "didn't they teach you about lying when you were in school? Honestly." A shake of his head, like he couldn't believe he was so careless, had omitted so much, and good God, it made Saguru want to beg him for forgiveness. To kneel down and---He shuddered, all the more violently, pressed into the desk the way he was, back arched, hands gripping the ancient blotter, nearly pulling it apart with nerves, with pleasure, with too many other sparking things. 

Kaito's smile. Corner of his jaw, edge of an upturned lip, sweetness—

The thumb grinding into his slit was distracting him. Saguru bit his lip, focused—tried to focus, Christ, he couldn't, he couldn't, he—Breath clotting in his lungs, heartbeat going too fast to be healthy, a sick spreading heat inside his skull chasing out everything but the push-stroke of Kaito's thumb, his big blue eyes, window wide open and spilling in moonlight and the dead camera watching him, watching him, watching—

"A—Are you sure it's off?" Saguru whimpered, to keep his mind on something other than how close he was already, how embarrassingly little it took to get him dripping into Kaito's hands like—like he couldn't even think of a comparison, had never had this problem before (never had the opportunity, come on, do you really think anyone else you've been with had any competition with Kaito Kuroba--)

"I'm sure," said Kaito, and something solid hid behind his words, something soothing and reassuring. "Shh, Detective. Focus on me. Look at me." 

"Try—Trying to," breathed Saguru, and, Christ fuck shit fuck his eyes crossing vision warping the heat inside his head threatening to boil him into senseless—

Quick as thinking, Kaito's fingers pinching him – underneath? Yes, of course, thumb and forefinger pinching the—the—

"I—can't think of what it's called," said Saguru, baffled and dazed, his face flushed hot red, and his tongue sticky inside his mouth. 

Kaito snorted a laugh, and looked at him with dancing eyes, so bright he couldn't help but smile back in turn. 

"N—Not that," he said, "not---" 

Then Kaito's thumb and forefinger unpinch, and Saguru squeaked, bucked his hips up, dripped for him. The pressure of it – the pressure of pleasure inside him – felt ridiculous, too big, like he'd --- swallowed a fucking balloon, and it was primed to go off, and none of this was making any sense, and oh, Christ, Kaito was moving his fingers again, his thumb, slick-wet-hot-needed oh Christ—down the shaft, up to tease the head, down again, and—

A thumb, sliding hot and wet between his balls, finding the tender give between them, making him cry out – fuck shit fuck, he hoped Nakamori had taken all the men, hadn't left guards, hadn't doubled back to get anything, didn't want them to see him spread out like this, half-climbing the desk, exposed dimly to the dull office artwork and broken and weak andandand—Squeal, sharp and splintered, Kaito's thumb back up again, grinding wet and slick against his slit and making him breathless with it, making him want to buck and arch and pull away, oh Christ, pull away from all that sensation that was making it hard to think to focus to be. 

"Shhh," said Kaito, the tenderness of his voice only fragments in his head, "shh, darling, shh—" his English had an accent, an adorable tilt to it; it made his heart squeeze inside his chest like a fist wrapped around it, and Saguru sobbed out a ragged breath, thought—thought, tried to think, couldn't come up with anymore more than white noise. 

Silence, and quiet, and no more impressions, nothing taking him over, nothing pulling at him to focus and understand and know and—

Saguru jerked; his teeth clacked together as he crooked his head back, arched his back and pushed his hips into Kaito's grip and came. Blinding and brutal and hot, spattering white into Kaito's glove, his hand, the buzzing of his voice like warmth inside him, meaningless but meaningful. Saguru's fingers gripped the edge of the desk, and then he breathed out, one two three four, let his heartbeat start to slow, fivesixseveneight. 

"Better?" 

Saguru managed a grunt; nothing more. He'd bitten his tongue, and it hurt, a small stinging pain that doesn't do anything to pull him out of his pleasure, the vibrating heat of it still burning in his stomach, his trembling, weak, legs. 

He nodded. 

Kaito's Chesire grin curved against his neck. "I'm not done with you," he said, "not by a long shot. But I think you need to sit, Mr. Detective." 

From nowhere, he produced a chair – well, not from nowhere, thought Saguru, there were chairs near the wall, but he'd pulled it close—and pushed him into it. Nylon fabric and cat-fur seating; the musty smell of synthetic that had gotten wet once and never dried properly. 

The breeze, from some window somewhere out of his view, sneaking across his skin, his bare cock, his belly, and his—God. His eyes rolled back to the camera, blind, pointed at him, and he flushed. 

"It's off," said Kaito, whipping off a soiled glove – DNA so much DNA there – and twisting it inside out, stuffing it inside the other one, and putting it in his pocket, next to—

Saguru snorted as Kaito pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. 

And then another. 

And another. 

And anotheranotheranother—

"I came prepared," said Kaito, before Saguru can so much as think about a joke concerning the pedantic nature of magicians, "because I figured you would." 

That brought on the blushing; and Saguru scowled at him (more a pout, even he could tell) and flexed his wrists, trying to snap the handcuffs open by sheer will alone. 

"Detective," said Kaito, silky-soft, "did I look done to you?" His head cocked to one side; a new meanness in his voice, something more sly than Saguru had ever heard before, and oh, he loved it, he loved the purr of it, the barely-there threat of it, what was wrong with him? Loved how Kaito looked, head cocked, watching him, wicked, and bright, and—

"No," said Saguru, relieved he didn't swallow the words, choke on them. 

"No," agreed Kaito, and he perched himself on the desk, casually shoving everything off to one side, next to the lumpy computer monitor. Legs for gorgeous, gorgeous inches, spread out in front of him. Gymnast legs. Legs that Saguru should not be distracted by, but is, helplessly, always is. Besides, it felt safer to look at his legs than to lift his head and risk looking at Kaito, risk seeing that glint in his eye, risk feeling his body start to throb again, to ache and want. 

"Come here," said Kaito, and startled him out of his daze; he indicated the floor in front of him with a tap of his shoe. 

For a second, the thought doesn't gel inside his mind. Come where? 

Then he crawled from his seat and went over, dropped down to his knees. Kaito's lap level with his face – for sure, Kaito can feel the heat of his blush. It's fucking obvious, has to be. He hadn't blushed this hard in years, and all of a sudden, he's making up for lost time. 

Kaito's hand brushed over his hair, curled through it. 

Saguru had to suppress a moan, and another blush, more embarrassment. God, he was acting like an idiot, like someone who'd never been touched before; acting as though Kaito had never given him pleasure before. 

"You know," said Kaito, "you worry me so much." His thumb curled down, found the edge of his ear, stroked the lobe, then behind it; the pulse of his heart felt too loud in his head. "You never relax, Saguru." 

"Pot, kettle," mumbled Saguru. "You never relax either." He could hear how pouty he sounded, how childish, but for fuck's sake. Principle of the matter. Kaito never relaxed. Kaito needed him to tell him to relax. 

Kaito looked at him as though he couldn't decide whether to be amused or to be annoyed, and then leaned down. Kissed his forehead, his mouth cool and soft, nose brushing against his forehead. Breath on his bare skin. His heartbeat thudthudthudding inside his chest. 

"I know," said Kaito, "but I've got you to take care of me. And you take such good care of me. But you—" His fingers again, scratching through his hair, at his scalp, making Saguru's entire body tingle all at once, "—you don't let anyone take care of you. Want to carry the whole world on your own, without letting me so much as lift a single corner of it. Want to do everything on your own." His voice wasn't accusing. Far from it. 

It was gentle. Gentler than anything he'd ever, ever heard in his life. 

Saguru, for God's sake act your age—  
You're a genius, act like it—

A small choked noise in the back of his throat, and Kaito bent. 

Sweet-sugar kiss, chaste as family, aching pressure on his mouth and, somehow, it chased the chatter from his head, left him hum-brained, arching up for more like it was this, or he'd die. Teeth against teeth (impatience), stutter-catch-release of air between the wet slip-slide of tongues, the possessive-fucking-grasp of Kaito's fingers sliding down his spine, grabbing two handfuls of back-of-pockets, and hauling him against him. Thunderous heartbeat. The whole world sounded like it was ending just beyond the threshold, it was so loud inside his head. 

Kaito nudged him back. Tophat slipping off, ghosting on the tiles, leaving him in white suit and navy shirt and red tie with a half-Windsor, loosened enough to slide off if he should—

"My detective," murmured Kaito, to the crook of his neck, fingers on buttons, slide of fabric. Out and open. The air on his chest, making his body prickle in sharp little bursts. Everything Kaito did was painful, was too real, was too much—he couldn't keep track of it all, there were too many sensations blending past his brain, one into the other into the other. 

"I can't," stuttering soft, "I can't I can't—"

"Shhh," gentle, and soft, "shh. It's only me. You can. Trust me." 

Vision blurring; cracking open on Kaito's smile, the half-tilted angle of his head, wild hair – ridiculous wild hair, finger-teased and wind-tossed, silk-soft if he pushed his hands into it. 

Kaito's hands slid against his chest, found his heart. Held it. 

(Was it just him, or did it speed up?)

"You trust me?" whispered Kaito, and his fingers moved, traced patterns on his chest, a heart a space a diamond a—caught his mouth again, kiss chasing away the din of no not yet not here not—

And there was only ever one response to what Kaito asked. 

"Always," he said, and shuddered as he felt his shirt puddle on the floor, his trousers unsnapping at the buttons, sliding down his bare legs. Boxers following. Until he stood there, in the bloody head office of the bloody Mitsubishi Gallery, in his bloody sock garters, while the bloody infuriating wonderful creative love of his life talked about trust and—"I do, I just – letting go. Not easy for me. It's not—" 

"Is that why the games?" murmured Kaito, "why all the backstory and the—"

Saguru gave it a half-second thought. Couldn't give it more than that, not with Kaito's hands trailing down down down, from chest to hips to chest again, sliding against his sides, touching him everywhere he'd never considered sensitive, and now was. Making him tremble in the wake of his fingers. God. God. 

Is that why the games. 

He flushed. It was its own response. 

Kaito watched him, inclined his head a little. And then leaned in and kissed him, very gently, on the forehead. 

"It's easier if I'm not me," barely-audible. "I don't --- know how." He knew the logistics of it, though, the tried-and-tested truth of it, the way everything fit together, what other people looked for. He'd colour-by-numbers them inside his head, labelled them and dissected them when other people had these---feelings, knew how to parse them into language. Perfect little robot. 

"Always a first time for everything," said Kaito/KID, his voice like sunlight. "You like learning new things, don't you?"

Two fingers on his chin, tipping his head up. He could taste the bite of the air, cold like ice-cream, freezing his throat. Those blue eyes watchful. 

Saguru swallowed. Words like razors in his throat. "I've never—People never—" I'm supposed to be the one with all the answers everything ordered not supposed to feel these things I'm stronger better than this I understand why these things happen you don't don't make me— 

Kaito moved. Slow, like he was dancing. Coming closer to him, until they were nose-to-chest to each other. The lifts in Kaito's shoes weren't tall enough to help him here; he had stalwart English blood pumping in his veins (and in his aching, throbbing, mess of a heart) and he loomed over Kaito. The tophat gone, that black hair loose. Made him look more vulnerable, more human, more approachable. 

"I love you," no word games this time, firm and to the point. "You can trust me. Let me take care of you, Detective. Tend to you." His hands on either side of his face, holding his jaw in place, pulling him down—

And he went. And something in him that understood these things better than he did ached for the kiss, ached for the pressure of it inside his chest, ached for how tenderly Kaito touched him. He made him hurt. It wasn't logical, that he enjoy this when it hurt so badly, but he did. 

It burned. 

Kaito's hands went down to the handcuffs, pinned them to the desk behind his. His mouth roamed down, over his throat, sparking nerve endings awake, having them firework underneath his skin. His body against his, grinding against his: Kaito fully dressed, himself debauched and half-naked. 

It shouldn'tcouldn'twasn't affecting him like that. No. 

Kaito chuckled. "Stubborn," he teased, and Saguru cracked a smile back. "You're coiled up again. Look at me. Watch me." Something pleading in his voice. Kid asking for control – used to taking it. But it was different with him. 

Give him this. Saguru bit his lip, nodded. Focused his attention on Kaito, every inch of it he could muster, trying to keep his wild-horse brain from running off, leaping into figures and away from emotion, abandoning this for something safer and sterile and cleaner. 

"Have you ever—" Kaito, half-paused. "With other people?"

"No," said Saguru. "Not with other people. Just with you." Pause. Two seconds. "You're the on—only one who's ever --- seen this. Seen me like this." Not naked, but flayed open. All his wiring laid bare. 

Kaito pursed his mouth. His fingers worked distractingly, tracing across spiderwebbing scars on his abdomen (Tokyo Chichester Tokyo London Tokyo--) and over to one hip bone, where the hard-edged bone looked as though someone had taken a dent out of it. 

(They had. With a baseball bat). 

"Only me?" said Kaito, ten seconds later, a full ten seconds of touching, feeling his scars, seeing things he knew by heart by now. Things that Kaito had witnessed him getting (not just the scars but the nightmares that went with them). "Ah. Were you such a good boy when you were younger?"

"I was a nightmare," it's easier, to talk. Saguru gulped in air, leaned back against the desk, pressed one hip up. Crooking himself open, hitching himself up, trying not to think about the owner of this desk and what he'd do if he came into the office right now to find Kaitou Kid and Detective Saguru Hakuba going at it on his desk like animals, swallowed up by each other, not even decent enough to put something down to protect his blotter and rolodex. "Slept –um. With anyon—anyone who'd let me. But it was – it was boring. People didn't—" stop staring what are you looking at oh God can you just shut up and fuck me already "—I didn't—"

"Ah, ah," when he tensed again, Kaito's fingers curling around his cock, working it up again, squeezing and releasing, teasing. Blood pumping in his veins. 

"And then there was you," ragged voiced, "and, God, you were the most infuriating thing I've ever had --- had the misfortune to bloody --- come up against." 

"Thank you," said Kaito, "I pride myself on being unique." Cheshire-cat smile. 

It made him smile back. Just a little. Took the edge off of how this was so – serious and dull and dark. Made it not hurt. Made it—

Made it good. 

Just the two of them, just being close. Talking to each other. 

"So clever," murmured Saguru, better now, that he was thinking about Kaito, Kaito young, Kaito in his gakuran jacket, Kaito of a few years ago, cleverer than anyone had a right to be, and bloody full of it, and annoying, and always in his mind, and forever and always a bright spark in his life. Lightning in a glass bottle. "I—I had to – had to get used to it, you know. Not being the cleverest one in the room. Not—being right all the time." 

Kaito chuckled. Then said, "on your belly, Detective. Only for a little bit." 

He rolled. It was easy to do, with Kaito being so sweet. And his memories full of good things, better things, than he'd dreamt of in his philosophy. 

Blotter underneath his mouth again. Taste of old ink and faded pages. Kaito: fingers ghosting down the inside of his thighs, then away. Pause. Click of something—

"You—" slick of cold fingertips at his hole; he reigned in a stuttering, sharp gasp. 

"There, there," chiding and gentle, lockpick fingers sliding in deep deep deep and touching—inside—curving up and—

His vision flickered white then grey at the edges, and he stifled a sob against the blotter. His back arched down, aborted-yoga-sessions flexible, pushed down onto those fingers, onto Kaito's fingers – so much better for them being his. 

"You were saying?" said Kaito, moved his fingers a little, scratched an itch inside him Saguru had forgotten existed. The room greyed again; lancing pleasure cut off air, his throat choked with it. "About me being an infuriating little—"

Saguru laughed. Or something close to that. "Drove me—me—mad." Panting hitching arching for more fingers more movement more kissing and more more more of everything that Kaito could give him. Blotter underneath his head growing stained, sweat-spotted; wind in through a window somewhere; vibrant white of Kaito's tophat out of the corner of his eye and—

Kaito's other and: bellyribsand—flick-pinch at a nipple, making his cock twitch higher against his belly. Fuck. Fuck. 

"Mmh," Kaito, "you were the bane of my existence. Always so – clever. And perfect. I thought – if anyone could see me, it'd you. And that was—" Kaito's voice softening. "… Frightening. I've never had anyone see me."

There are always masks, thought Saguru, hazed and broken: Kaito grinning during class Kaito with his tophat and monocle, the different was a matter of semantics, and neither one was true to what Kaito was really like. Not a joker, not facetious, not a criminal mastermind with a grudge, not a sweet, cold boy. 

Complicated and fire-spark bright, kind, sweet, caring, too good and pure for him. 

"You—" Saguru's voice faded down to a purr, rusty-engine-loud, "—were always—the brightest thing—in my life."

Pause, ragged with feeling. Kaito's breathing deepening, then: 

Kiss at the nape of his neck. Lowerlower. Following the line of his spine, and then back up again. 

Small voice, uncertain, two fingers crooking deep, stretching him open without a flicker of pain (he remembered how much this hurt in his youth remembered how filthy it felt how could Kaito make it something different?), "I love you." 

He could tell him more than that. He could tell him, your memories are the one I relive when I have a bad day. Or, I keep replaying meeting you in my head when I'm falling asleep. Or even, watching you get hurt terrifies me more than anything. 

But in the end – in the pure and utter end – Kaito knew all that already. 

"I love you," whisperedechoedsoft. "I love you." Again, because Kaito never seemed to know this road went two ways. "I love you, I love you—"

Kaito shuddered. Pressed against him, all compact muscle and dream softness, and then---the slow slide in of his cock, the stretch-open of muscle and the strangling-pressure of Kaito sinking in deep, inch by inch, his body opening up for him, and taking, and taking, and taking---

Until Kaito was against his back, his breath ghosting on the back of his neck. 

And he was so stuffed full of sensation, there was no room for anything else in his head. Nothing but the pleasure. Nothing but Kaito. 

Nothing but this. 

Move together, heartbeat for heartbeat. Sweat trickling down his back, Kaito's mouth on the nape of his neck, muttering ragged words in French (ma petit coeur ma petit chou), Kaito's hands on his hips, holding his steady and—outinoutinout—wobbling breath, throbbing aching of a nipple as Kaito's hand slid up, found one, tweaked it between his fingers. 

Squirt of wet on the blotter; he might have squealed, or at least someone did. 

Cold air on his face. 

Kaito's free hand sliding around and – Saguru squeaked, high and sharp – closing tight. A thumb at the base of his cock, playing with the slippery-slick wet dripping down his shaft, circling between base and balls, and and and—

Forever. 

He can't think how long it took. The minutes ran away from him, the seconds trickled past like blood. Kaito moved, and there was that, there was only that, and the pleasure, the heat, the mumbled French and the taste of dry ink on his tongue, and his vision fluttering as Kaito's cock rubbed up against a spot inside him so sensitive he nearly cried, and the pleasure like fireworks inside his blood and more more more, higher, tighter, and—

He didn't know how long it took. 

But Kaito jagged in deep, got faster, moved harder, and onetwothreegush all over the blotter, felt the responding heat inside him as Kaito rutted against his back and groaned into the nape of his neck, and they both collapsed trembling and weak onto the desk. The wood cold underneath his cheek, Kaito's body hot against his back. 

For a—some time, silence. Pure silence. 

No thoughts or worries or whispering voices in his head pulling on his attention. Just Kaito. 

"Better?" said Kaito, his voice sleepy and lazy. 

"I could be arrested for breaking and entering, colluding with a known criminal, perverting the course of justice, and public indecency," said Saguru, his voice like shredded silk, his throat raw with crying out. "I'm peachy." 

Kaito laughed. Smacked his hip, and made him grin. "Breaking the law suits you, detective. Puts a glow in your cheeks. Makes you all --- relaxed and lazy. You should do it more often." 

"I'll take that under advisement," said Saguru. "But, next time, the handcuffs are going to be on you." 

Kaito raised his head. Grinned at him, and even without the tophat and monocle, it was pure filth. Pure KID. "I look forward to it, Detective Hakuba."

And Saguru thought – had no way of knowing for sure, because once he sobered up and realized he'd just splashed about a cup's worth of DNA all over some poor man's desk and blotter, he might feel differently – that they'd both feel better if more heist notices ended like this: lazy and fucked out and pleasured, and in each other's company. 

Something, he thought, to keep in mind for next time. 

Because there would definitely, absolutely, be a next time.


End file.
